


make you feel at home

by brophigenia



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Organized Crime, Brunch, Cats, Clubbing, Domestic Fluff, Frottage, Loneliness, M/M, Mob!K, Mob!Proko, Mutual Masturbation, Organized Crime, References to The Notebook (2004), Reunion Sex, Unsolicited Dick Pics, but it's really just background, k being useless, mentions of recreational drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 19:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19797145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: The cat was named Socks, and she absolutelyhatedK.(AKA, Proko is on a trip; K is left behind with a cat named Socks and an empty house. With sexy reunion sex results.)





	make you feel at home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Glitterghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitterghost/gifts).



> title from 'i wanna sex you up' by color me badd  
> cut lyrics from 'you picked me' by a fine frenzy
> 
> happy birthday to my ghostie with the mostie, my bestie @ glitterghost. you're one year more badass and i've had a great time writing this to celebrate you. <3

_ like an apple on the tree, hiding out behind the leaves _ _  
_ _ i was difficult to reach, but you picked me  _

***

The cat was named Socks, and she absolutely  _ hated _ K. 

Proko had brought her in a wicker carrier, cooed as he pulled her out and snuggled her into his infinitely-gentle grip, murmuring soft Bulgarian words like lullabies into her fur, and  _ utterly  _ misrepresented her character to K before  _ abandoning her  _ in his care. And abandoning  _ K  _ into  _ her  _ care. He’d been on his way to the airport and left behind his Rover in K’s driveway, sprinting out to his Uber with nothing more than a kiss for both Socks and K, in that order. 

He’d left behind  _ cat hair  _ on K’s lips. 

The cat, which had purred happily when being handled by Proko, promptly hissed and snapped at K when he tried going too near it, all her hackles rising and her tail stiffening up like a porcupine. 

“Fuck you too!” He spat in her direction, and then grimaced as he opened up one of the cans of food that Proko had left, dumping it into the accompanying  _ monogrammed cat bowl.  _ He’d known that Proko had gotten a cat sometime last year, but as he spent exactly no time in Proko’s matchbox of an apartment in Midtown he genuinely did not remember the thing’s existence until Proko had brought it up during the arrangements for his…  _ business  _ trip. 

It was only six thirty. 

K sighed, and opened Safari on his iPhone. 

_ what do i do if im home alone and dont have any cocaine,  _ he typed into Google. 

It was going to be a  _ long  _ fucking weekend. 

***

For any of his other (numerous) faults, K had never before had a problem dazzling on the dance floor. The clubs in Jersey were loud and obnoxious, all colored lights and hairspray and  _ heat.  _ Just the kind of thing he needed to forget the silence back at home, to chase the achy weariness from his twenty-four-year-old bones. 

He waited for the usual, familiar ease to settle upon his shoulders and was left cold when it did not. 

What was a king without his subjects? 

He was a king, but not among this set: these vacationers, these kids home from college, too young to worry about who was who and who wore the crown. He'd probably lost half his ease in these kind of places a long time ago, around the time he started sucking cock in  _ Virginia, _ of all places, and made up for it with Proko’s bolstering presence. 

(What did his parents fucking expect, shipping him off to Hell Fucking Nowhere? What prince could come up the right way if he was exiled from his kingdom? What Kavinsky could become a  _ Kavinsky  _ with no Italian blood to spill and no Bulgarian-owned streets to stalk?) 

They were melancholy thoughts that didn't match his surroundings, but K's mood blackened terribly as he stood near the club's entrance feeling awkward and anxious. He wanted a few lines to knock back, though his deviated septum shuddered at the thought, anticipating the pain and postnasal drip that would result if he took the blow back up again. He imagined it, imagined being yipped in a place where he was alone, not even a gun or a knife to back him up, wandering around like the worst kind of fool, half a punishment to himself for being so needy and half to Proko for leaving him in the first place, though that was unfair. 

Proko was gone on a mission for  _ him,  _ after all. For the empire they had taken from his father and were building, together. A weekend trip away was hardly a betrayal, especially when K had bought the plane ticket himself,  _ and yet.  _

“Joey  _ K!”  _ A girl shrieked in his ear— Elisaveta Chumakov, who went by  _ Lisa C,  _ who’d given him his first blowjob when they were both fourteen. She was as tall as him flat-footed, and her skin was tangerine orange from cheap self-tanner. She smelled very strongly of gardenia. K slung an arm around her shoulder and kissed her cheek open-mouthed and  _ wet,  _ trying to take the edge off by clinging just a bit. Just enough. 

_ “Lisa  _ C,” he replied, and made his voice low, just for her, slanting the kind of devilish look that girls like her expected from boys like him, even after all these years. She arched her back with it, smug around her veneers when she smiled. 

“You need a  _ drink,  _ babe.” She told him, leaning in close so she was speaking right in his ear, switched over to nasally New-Jersey-bastardized Bulgarian. It was how all the hometown girls thought they’d get a man like K into their beds. 

She was not Prokopenko, but he wasn’t planning to  _ propose.  _

“I need  _ six  _ drinks.” He corrected her, and then let himself be tugged in the direction of the bar, swallowing back his dread. 

Two more nights. 

***

The phone was fucking  _ ringing.  _

K rolled over, swearing, and briefly contemplated ritualized suicide before snatching the thing up and sliding beneath the covers to hide from the sunlight streaming in through the curtains that he’d forgotten to close last night. That was usually Proko’s job, anyway. 

“What the  _ fuck.”  _ He snapped, not checking to see who was calling. It was all the same: he didn’t care if it was the fucking governor or the mailman. Nobody should be waking him up before  _ noon  _ on a  _ Saturday.  _ Especially not with Proko gone. 

“Let’s go get some  _ brunch, _ motherfucker.” Skov said, a familiar entreaty by now, though they were far and away from the days when  _ brunch  _ meant Hardee’s breakfast at 9:55 AM in Hellrietta, Virginia.  _ He  _ sounded chipper, unfairly awake. K hadn’t even known that he was back in the States; Skov spent all his time bouncing between New Jersey and the UK on one whim or another, carelessly spending money and earning frequent flyer miles. He was so comfortable on airplanes that K privately thought he should just get a gig as a stewardess and be done with it, though he supposed flight attendants didn’t get to drink as much champagne as first class passengers did. 

K briefly entertained thoughts of saying  _ no,  _ but then he’d be stuck in the house all day long with Socks and  _ without  _ Proko, so he heard himself responding before he’d even consciously decided to. “Where?” 

“New place I heard about.” Skov’s tone, impossibly, brightened even further.  _ “Corpse Reviver.” _

That… sounded promising. 

“Be there in thirty.” K groaned, and then hung up. 

***

“I don’t remember hangovers being this bad when we were at goddamn Aglionby.” K muttered, shrunken behind the dark tint of his Nocturnal Qs and feeling like Arnold Vosloo in  _ the Mummy, _ pre-resurrection. Like his fucking  _ liver  _ needed some moisturizer. 

“Well,” Skov said reasonably, peering at the menu like he  _ wasn’t  _ gonna order an egg white omelet and a metric shitton of liquor. “That was probably all the coke.” 

K grunted, an  _ ahh, you’re right  _ kind of sound, and picked up his own menu. What the fuck was a  _ frittatta?  _

The waiter that took their order was a perky twink with a nametag that dubbed him  _ Sebastian.  _ He practically mounted Skov as he relayed their various brunch specials, including  _ Chef Tristan’s  _ tempura tacos that were absolutely  _ to die for,  _ and then jumped like a battered mouse when K piped up to order a whole  _ boat  _ of bacon, wrinkling his button nose and declaring that they were a  _ pescatarian  _ restaurant. Skov butted in to order them both a spinach-and-feta egg white omelet that, when it arrived, closely resembled the vomit that K had produced this morning before his shower. 

It was all the same, anyway, after he dove into some hair of the dog. 

"Give me your phone." K said lazily, boneless and exhausted with a fucking  _ headache _ boiling between his eyebrows, right in the creased place that Proko always wanted to touch, to caress, to massage the tension out of. 

Skov gave up the thing carelessly, flagging down the waiter for a refill on his bottomless bellini. He was a peacock in his flashy gym clothes, all  _ athleisure  _ like he was some sponsored Instagram post, walking and talking. 

His password was the same as it had always been (80085) and K craned his neck briefly, making sure that there was no one around where they sat on the terrace before he unzipped his pants and pulled out his half-soft cock, wrapping his hand around it and snapping a picture that he wordlessly texted to a number he knew by heart. 

The reply came swiftly, before he even had fixed his jeans back to rights, restoring his questionable decency. Skov, for his part, was not even pretending to be curious about whoever he had sent dick pics to on the borrowed device. He was chattering on about Swan, barely pausing to swill his drinks (the newly-refilled bellini in one hand and a mimosa in the other) as he spun some wild tale of Swan's latest  _ miraculous  _ polo victory at Cambridge. 

**go to hell, kavinsky**

K didn't deign to respond; no doubt Dick had already blocked the number. That was fine. It had had its intended effect, anyway: K laughed, head tipped back and teeth bared. 

Skov paused briefly in his telling of how Swan leapt from the back of his horse and started to fly with two newly-sprouted white-feathered wings, or some such bullshit. "You sound like Mojo Jojo." He said, archly, all superior like he wasn't the one referencing the goddamn  _ Powerpuff Girls. _

"Fuck you," K retorted pleasantly, and then looked around again for the waiter. "I need another mimosa." 

***

Socks sat licking her paws dourly on the other side of the couch as K glowered first at the television where  _ The Notebook  _ played and then at the remote in his lap, useless with dead batteries. Who the fuck kept AA batteries in their fucking house? It was  _ 2019. _

He’d already put on his sweatpants and one of Proko’s Rutgers crewnecks and had zero intention or inclination to go to the goddamn  _ battery store,  _ or wherever the fuck someone went to get batteries. He supposed he could go rooting around in the drawers for a couple greens to take and then dream himself a new set, but he was just as likely to dream up a flaming hellbeast or sleep until eleven AM as he was to come back up with a pair of functional batteries clutched in his fist. 

He supposed it was easier to submit to his own doom, even if his pride demanded he do something dramatic, like fling the useless remote into the gigantic plasma screen. Rachel McAdams was pretty hot, at least. 

“Fuck the world.” He sighed, settling in for the long haul. If he went to bed now he’d just stare at the digital clock for probably seven hours and then probably get into a Mood and end up breaking a bunch of shit. He really didn’t want to brave another Home Goods visit with Proko pushing the cart and clucking like a goddamn  _ baba,  _ directing him to this shower curtain and that gravy boat. They didn’t even  _ eat  _ gravy. It was all bullshit. 

_ “I wrote you three hundred and sixty five letters. I wrote you every day for a year.”  _ Ryan Gosling insisted on the screen, bulked up and dripping rainwater and earnesty.  _ “It wasn’t over. It still isn’t over.”  _ He kissed Rachel McAdams with a desperate intensity, clinging to her as the downpour soaked them both to the bone. Like he would die if he didn’t get as close to her as he possibly, humanly could. 

K cleared his throat, blinking, and side eyed the cat. 

Socks had moved on to licking her own nether regions. 

K gave up, and went to go stare at the clock for the next seven hours until he fell into a restless sleep. 

***

K woke up muzzily at six AM to the knowledge that there was someone else in his bedroom. Briefly, he wondered if he should reach for the Glock taped underneath the bedframe, in arm’s reach, but then heard the soft  _ swish  _ as the intruder closed the curtains that K had forgotten to and decided that he’d take his chances, keeping his eyes closed and his body curled up around Socks, whose claws were dug viciously into K’s stolen sweatshirt. Socks grumbled, kneading irritably, and then leapt off the bed with a soft  _ mrow,  _ no doubt gone off to piss on K’s carpets or cough up hairballs into K’s Italian leather shoes. 

K exhaled heavily through his nose and turned onto his back, still keeping his eyes closed. 

“I missed you,” Proko said, climbing into bed, home nearly eighteen hours early. “I’m glad you and Socksy got along.” 

“We did  _ not-”  _ K began, but was cut off by Proko’s lips pressing against his, Proko’s hands sliding up under his sweatshirt, Proko’s legs tangling with his and the sheets. His protest turned into a quiet moan in the back of his throat and he tangled his fingers in Proko’s hair, limp from the recycled air in the plane and too-little product. 

“Let’s fuck.” Proko mumbled, trailing kisses down to K’s ear so he could blow into it, obnoxiously, like K couldn’t tell from his sluggish movements and suppressed yawns that he was exhausted. 

K rolled his eyes, unseen, and with a twist of his body had Proko beneath him,  _ really  _ tangled in the sheets now. 

“How about,” he said, tearing at the fastening on Proko’s jeans and pulling out his cock, squirming until he’d pulled out his own from his sweatpants. He spat viciously into his own palm and wrapped his hand around both of their cocks, grinning when Proko shouted with it, swearing profusely. “You just shut the fuck up.” 

“Okay,” Proko nodded, mindlessly, and let his head roll from side to side, hips bucking, such a mess just from this, their foreskins pressing together and the sensitive heads  _ bumping.  _ Good enough that K could feel it in his  _ teeth.  _ In his  _ molars.  _

They were both senseless with it. K wanted to be above it all, wanted to be lordly and superior, sitting on Proko’s lap like it was a throne, but it took hardly three strokes before he was curling his body in, pressing his forehead to Proko’s, keeping his eyes open so all he could see was a Proko-colored blur. Proko’s breath smelled like the bagel he’d eaten on the plane.

“Don’t leave me again.” He said, furious, and came onto Proko’s rumpled shirt, onto Proko’s  _ cock.  _

Proko only groaned, nodding, and came after K jerked him a couple more times, grip too tight to be nice. Too tight to be anything but  _ nasty,  _ really, but K was mean and Proko  _ loved  _ him, so. 

They lay side by side, gasping, after. 

“You get it done?” K asked, throwing an arm over his eyes so he could hide half his face in the crook of his elbow. His other hand was tangled with Proko’s. The goddamn cat wandered back into the bedroom and hopped onto the bed so she could curl up on K’s stomach. It was annoying. 

“Yep.” Proko replied, meaning  _ yes, I went and killed the guy I was supposed to kill and made nice with the guy I was supposed to make nice with and our criminal empire will live to dominate another day.  _

“Cool.” K sighed, and squeezed his hand. 

***

_ the two of us a perfect fit, and you’re mine, all mine _

_ and all i can say is ‘you blow me away’ _

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
